Clifton’s recently reopened after a 4 year remodel—a restoration that was so monumental and meticulous in its attempt to return a shine to the venerable institution—that even at 10 o’clock on the first day of October, a snaking line stretched down the block. The cafeteria was bought in 2010 by Andrew Meieran, a nightclub owner instrumental in the revitalization of downtown. His signature style: taking old buildings, repurposing them, and turning them into high-end bars that revel in old-timey nostalgia. “Downtown Los Angeles is one of the most intact areas of historic resources and historic structures in the country,” according to the nightlife impresario who sells his cocktails at well over 20 bucks a pop.
The 4 year remodel, which was originally supposed to consume just a quarter of that time, arose out of a commitment to preservation. This is a touchstone of all the publicity that has surrounded the remodel: the club magnate made a solemn promise to the family that owned the cafeteria not to ravage the place but, rather, to lovingly restore it to its previous glory. And in his quest for that sweet spot of physical preservation, he kept finding more amazing elements to restore. The façade was removed only to find an older and better façade. And on that older and better façade was a neon sign, hidden behind the masonry, that had been shining bright; it had been lit for the past 75 years, continuously; immediately it was promptly installed in the record books and the museum of Neon Art—the longest continually running neon light in history.
Meieran has remained true to his word, at least in terms of the physical plant: There have been few material changes beyond the fact that the top two levels now have liquor licenses. Full bars, done up in the 19th Century style, are open for business…and they are the most efficient part of this reboot. There are subtle tweaks that are understandable: now a famous chef has updated the traditional fare. To answer the question of everybody’s mind: Yes, the prices are what you might expect to pay at a sit-down restaurant, not a cafeteria. But they still make a point of serving the signature jello. For a limited time only, you can get the jello at its old-timey prices.
Clifton’s Cafeteria was once one of downtown’s mighty anchors and one of its most venerable eating houses—a culinary fixture that rose three stories into the skyline during a time when three stories was the upper limit—anchoring the Jewelry District on bustling Broadway. This occurred during a moment when the city (a city that still could boast a true center just like every other American city–had not yet succumbed to what would make it a distinctive outlier: its suburban sprawl.
Clifton’s definitely stood out, as tall and imposing as the replica of the grand sequoia tree that grows from its dining room floor. The motif was National Forest Kitsch; the space, done up like the kind of lodge you might find in Yosemite. Pseudo-realistic trees were painted onto the walls. Just to give it that added touch, taxidermy lions and deer and raccoons stood on display, along with a 20 foot waterfall that cascaded through the dining room. Clifton’s was literally designed as a Cabinet of Curiosities—a wunderkammer—that vestige of the Victorian parlor where old women displayed the amazingness that their sons brought home from explorations. It even announced this intention in its neon lights.
All this is to say that the grand old cafeteria was a spectacle in a Barnum and Bailey world—a world where all sorts of nice stuff was suddenly made available to the masses on the cheap. The cafeteria belonged to a time when engineering marvels could be produced–cookie-cutter–on a massive scale, a world where industrialization meant that economies of scale could generate great profits, with minimal costs and maximal bottom lines.
This was because it had to be: Clifton’s came into prominence during the height of the Great Depression when people barely had two nickels to rub together. True enough: Its owner publicized a humanitarian dimension in the publicity machine of his business model. You paid what you could, and if you couldn’t pay, you didn’t. This allowed the business to gain distinction as “The Cafeteria of the Golden Rule.” But there was a logic to this: Clifford Clinton, the scion of a restaurant, only sought to average a half penny profit on every head. And this was an important innovation that would make the beehive of his business hum. After all, this was a time of soup kitchens—a time that produced that Popeye character Wimpy, the perpetually hungry fatso in the bowler hat whose memorable line was, “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a Hamburger today.”
Most people think of Popeye as the most popular character of that comic strip, mainly because they are seduced by the animated cartoons and the movies that followed suit. But Wimpy claimed that honor when Popeye was distributed purely as a comic strip during the Depression. His name and his era give away his circumstances: J. Wellington Wimpy was a character of the upper-crust who had fallen on hard times and his food of choice, the hamburger, was the poor man’s steak. Wimpy wasn’t a skinflint. He was just down on his luck.
Press releases for the newly refurbished Clifton’s often trumpet its singularity—its uniqueness—as a testimony to the greatness of a by-gone era. But the Great Depression saw the rise of many forms of cheap mass entertainment. The grand old movie theater with its beautiful lights and its million dollar architecture arose during that dreary moment in history. And it did so precisely because entertainment magnates knew they could turn a heavy profit through economies of scale. They abandoned the small, dumpy movie houses because it made dollars and cents; they moved forward and developed the cinematic pleasure palaces where multitudes could sit for a pittance and pour their pennies into the cash register. The earliest of these theaters is still a few blocks up the street from Broadway and all of its cousin theaters—grander and grander—have fallen upon hard times, like J. Wellington Wimpy, along the avenue. They are now the sites of Evangelical meetings that service large Latino congregations.
We are coming out of a time not dissimilar to the Great Depression—a time wracked by our own Great Recession, where even the upper class has been laid low by free-wheeling circumstance and pitiless fortune. This is probably why the vogue for the Great Depression is in full-swing everywhere but, especially, in Downtown Los Angeles. Every bar now is a “speakeasy” and every bartender sports a waxed Snidely Whiplash mustache and a vest and a vintage pocket watch.
Homely fare like Pickled Eggs are all the rage, and they are the specialty of the house in places that feature those dimly-glowing Edison light bulbs in their décor. In the middle of Skid Row, one of the most prominent restaurants of revitalization set up shop. It is called the Nickel Diner—a place that channels that nostalgia for a simpler time when we were poor, a time when even a plug nickel could buy J. Wellington Wimpy a burger.
But every return to the past is a return with a difference. We remake all our nostalgia into our own image. And so those “speakeasy” bars with their Edison bulbs are now places, not of huddled masses, hiding from the law. They are the stomping grounds where young lawyers and accountants and executives rub shoulders and pony up 25 bucks a cocktail.
And what of Clifton’s? Will it be any different? Will it manage to preserve everything exactly as it is and should be? This was the promise of Andrew Meieran, the man who made his money by championing the return to the manly world of mixology. And I hope that this pans out.
I got a chance to visit Clifton’s the opening night. And indeed it is an impressive spectacle. Almost all the patrons were dressed up and, quite often, dressed up in the style of the Roaring Twenties. Busboys wore suspenders and bowties. There was a general festive air.
But even though an award-winning executive chef was hired, the food was a bit lackluster. You were paying twenty bucks—not a nickel–a person. The only consolation was the drinking area: the two bars upstairs—the new additions—were doing a brisk business with bearded bartenders in snazzy vests. The drinks looked delicious, if a little bit outside of my price range. “There will be a large Tiki bar that will debut on the uppermost level on Halloween” one of the bartenders told me–a guy with an amazing man-bun that made him look like an American samurai. “It’s gonna be real authentic alright.”
I knew then and there that in the long game, there was only one sure path to follow: Clifton’s Cafeteria would probably pay lip service to its cafeteria past but eventually it would become just another bar.